


The Peculiar Case of the Silver Platter

by clickingkeyboards



Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Boredom, Crack, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Modern AU, Siblings, Suspected Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26019028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: DSS SPOILERS!Forced to lay low at her brother’s flat for a week, Daisy turns her deductive powers and immeasurable boredom on him and his roommate — and takes some inspiration from the mischievous Amina El Maghrabi, of course.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/Hazel Wong (mentioned), Amina El Maghrabi/Daisy Wells, Bertie Wells & Daisy Wells, Daisy Wells & Hazel Wong, Harold Mukherjee/Bertie Wells
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	The Peculiar Case of the Silver Platter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WritesEveryBlueMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritesEveryBlueMoon/gifts).



Daisy was bored.

Daisy was also curious.

Daisy being bored and curious never brought anything good (as Hazel would tell anybody who asked).

When she was being forced to spend a long and, frankly quite boring, week at her brother’s flat, she had to find ways to entertain herself. A six-hour time difference and countless social events left Hazel unable to call (and the things they talked about were so bizarre and so full of inside jokes that it would concern anybody listening), and she wouldn’t dare to ask Amina to meet up for coffee (unless  _ she  _ asked first, that was another matter), George and Alexander were in Italy with George’s parents (and irritating Daisy and Hazel with beautiful pictures of Venice canals), and Kitty, Beanie, and Lavinia were too busy to bother asking (Kitty was dragging Beanie and Lavinia around every sight in London, insisting that they were to be proper tourists).

Daisy’s brother Bertie lived in a flat in Cambridge, a ten minute walk from the university campus. He was flatmates with Harold Mukherjee, a friend of his that he met during his lectures, and the older brother of one of Daisy’s friends. After a few minutes, Daisy thought that it was plain to see. They really were just boring, dull, ordinary friends, living together in a three bedroom because it was what they could afford (three bedrooms was a stretch, because the spare bedroom was definitely a converted cupboard, only they were too polite to mention it). 

Her deductive skills had been exhausted after a boring Monday and a dreary Tuesday — Monday had been spent catching Bertie up to speed on all the drama of her latest solo case of spying and detecting (which she was, of course, in Cambridge to recuperate from while her reports were processed and her next mission was issued), and Tuesday brought weather so miserable that not even Harold could convince the chilly and sulking Wells siblings to leave the house.

The living room was a boring and industrial affair that she dissected in live minutes flat. It had polished hardwood floors (Daisy had interrupted Harold after he said the word ‘hardwood’ — after the one time George had documented sitting through that hideously boring tangent, she would rather do anything than hear it herself) and flaking faux-leather sofas, and weird rugs that weren’t at all fluffy enough to stim on, and supposedly interesting glass tables (though she did devise a rather inventive way of watching  _ Buzzfeed Unsolved  _ season marathons without having to hold her I-Pad above her head, which involved starting the episode and placing her I-Pas face-down on the glass table, and then wriggling her way underneath and staying there for several hours).

* * *

Thursday rolled around and, after spending the whole of Wednesday in the Cambridge library (beautiful but  _ too quiet  _ — Hazel had adored all the photos she took, but she couldn’t jump up and down without getting glares, and patrons gave her peculiar looks when she stimmed by stroking the polished shelves), and the evening deducing the dining room and kitchen, and then her own (dull) spare room, Daisy was bouncing off the walls.

“Bertie, I’m  _ bored _ .” Her whining came from a position upside down in Harold’s armchair, tie-dye Converse already on and picking at the fishnets under her ripped jeans.

Barely looking up from his book, Bertie replied, “Daisy, we’re going out in an  _ hour _ . Patience is a virtue.”

“Which I don’t have!” 

“Squashy, can you just—” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, and Daisy noted with disapproval that Bertie had never looked more like their uncle. 

Whatever he was going to say, the answer would doubtless be no. “Give me something to do, give me something to do, give me something to do, give me something to do—”

_ How’s Cambridge?  _ Hazel asked over text, accompanied by an onslaught of heart emojis.  _ I bet you’re going insane, being all cooped up inside after being threatened by that awful minister with a gun. Talk about a change of pace. _

_ I got my reports back today, they approve of all my actions!  _ Daisy replied, glad for the distraction.  _ They even approved my request for you to take a few days off of school and come to that conference with me over Easter. You know, the one where we need to pose as secretaries and scribes for that one businessman? How’s HK? _

The reply came quickly.  _ YES, I’m so excited for that case. I need to brush up on my acting. _

_ You’ll be fine! You did the Rue, didn’t you? _ Daisy huffed and rolled her eyes, feeling all the blood rush to her head from her upside down position.

_ Your faith in me will never cease to amaze me,  _ Hazel said, accompanied by the tragedy and comedy masks.  _ It’s good over here, but way too hot. If I were in England, it would be a chilly half term hols of rain and maybe even SNOW. Ah Lan’s doing great, and May’s being as mischievous as ever. Rose has read about a thousand books since I arrived. How’s Cambridge? You never said. _

_ I AM SO BORED. _

_ Thought that might be the case. I wish you luck, don’t kill Bertie. _

_ Much appreciated, Watson. _

“When are we leaving?” Harold asked, swanning into the room, looking rumpled from sleep but still perfectly handsome. He leant on the arm of the sofa, ruffling Bertie’s still-damp blond hair. “Morning, Bertie, Daisy.”

Bertie looked up at him and smiled in a peculiar way, while Daisy sighed and dramatically dropped her phone on the ground. His, “In an hour,” got muddled in with Daisy’s, “As soon as possible, I’m  _ dying _ of boredom!”

“In an hour it is,” he said with a smile, taking his usual seat next to Bertie (Daisy had taken over the armchair when she arrived and Harold hadn’t bothered to fight her) and slinging his arm across the back of the sofa, leaning over to read along from wherever Bertie was in his book.

Daisy stuck her tongue out at him, sticking up her middle finger. He swore back at her, and Bertie waved a tired hand. “ _ Children _ , please.”

The peculiar look was back again, only it was Harold casting it to Bertie as he fell deep into his copy of  _ Something Like Summer _ , oblivious.

“Y’all are weird and boring adults and I’m getting more toast,” Daisy announced, her mind too busy to deduce, occupied with thoughts of plucking up the courage to ask Amina out on a real date, the news that Hazel would be working with her on an Easter case, and the restless annoyance of not knowing what her next assignment would be.

A delighted cry of, “You have Marmite!” rang out from the kitchen and startled Bertie and Harold out of distraction. “Bertie, you told me that you didn’t!”

“It’s disgusting and you shouldn’t eat it!”

“You just have poor taste!” Harold retorted.

“I have  _ sensible  _ taste.”

Their morning dissolved into bickering about appropriate things to put on toast (seriousness interspersed with Daisy and Harold suggesting things like mayonnaise, yoghurt, and strawberries and mustard just to watch Bertie’s astonishment), and they really did end up leaving at exactly the time Bertie had suggested.

* * *

On Friday, Bertie was in a rush to meet a deadline for a research paper and Harold had forgotten that he had agreed to help his aunt move house. After making Daisy promise and promise again to not break anything, and showing her how to persuade their particularly contrary front door into opening by twisting the key a certain way and shoving the wood in a particular place, they both rushed out of the house to get on trains and bury themselves in books.

After an hour, Daisy was sitting on top of the fridge. It really wasn’t her fault; Bertie hadn’t specified that she couldn’t sit on top of the fridge, and how else was she meant to get to the Coca-Cola?

She facetimed Hazel for three hours and laughed until she almost fell off her perch, and they talked over Daisy’s previous case, Kitty’s latest venture into romance (a cute girl at the local Starbucks with pink hair and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt), how May was still declaring her love for a very embarrassed Ah Lan, and the exciting prospect of their next case together. After several interruptions from Rose comparing dresses, a teething and babbling Teddy being shoved into Hazel’s arms, May shrieking about not wanting to wear her white shoes because a pirate would  _ never _ , they started considering that maybe Hazel ought to go and get ready for the business party they were being forced to attend.

An interruption from Vincent sealed the deal, as only Daisy’s timely quick thinking and Hazel swallowing her blushes managed to stop him overhearing Hazel excitedly whispering another retelling of her latest exciting tryst with the ridiculously romantic Alexander Arcady (which Daisy had heard about already).

After calling Hazel, Daisy grabbed another Cola and stole one of Harold’s Hobnobs, and was just considering contacting Amina for her advice on organising some convoluted prank involving Marmite when something occurred to her.

She hadn’t practised her deducing skills on either of the other bedrooms yet.

The first order of business was a text sent to George, who replied with several (frankly creepy) side-eye emojis and plenty of encouragement. After sending back a succinct reply ( _ Fuck you! :) I’ll tell you if I find anything of note _ ), Daisy opened the door to Harold’s bedroom.

Instantly, she noticed that something was peculiarly off. A lesser mind than hers might not have picked up on it, she thought, but to her the oddness of the room was immediately obvious: it wasn’t  _ lived in _ . There was a pile of books on the side table and a lamp with a fraying cord, and framed artwork on the walls. It looked as if somebody had just moved in, and that was exactly the problem. Daisy pulled back the duvet and there wasn’t a wrinkle on the sheet, nor were the pillows slightly manipulated and squashed in the way that every pillow is; even the ones in her room were starting to dip and dent to accommodate her sleeping there, and she had only been in the house since Monday.

Perhaps Harold was obsessively tidy, but that didn’t seem to match up. He may have been a decently organised person, but he wasn’t like his brother; he was still a person who cast clutter about the place, the sign of a restless and busy mind.

It occurred to her all at once, and she rushed across the hall to Bertie’s bedroom after neatening up Harold’s room. Absently, she thought that she needn’t have bothered. Nobody slept in there, anyway.

* * *

“Really, Daisy?” Bertie had said to her later that evening, while Harold was in the bathroom. “I can tell what you’re thinking and you can get that thought right out of your mind, Harold and I are just friends and flatmates, nothing more. Not everything is a fascinating mystery.”

He grinned and Daisy chuckled, thinking of rumbled bedsheets on both sides of the bed, the two razors in the en-suite bathroom, Harold’s shoes underneath Bertie’s bed, and a book on the nightstand that George had given Harold for his last birthday.

* * *

A week later, Daisy was on her laptop in a (frankly, dull) hotel room in Edinburgh, waiting for her Uncle Felix to explain why exactly she cared about a young pastry chef and his tangled romance with an Italian grocer’s daughter. 

Just as she was wondering if her uncle was ever going to show his face, she got an email alert.

_ Hey Squashy, _

_ I’m not saying you did take the silver platter from the flat and I am not saying you didn’t take it but the fact remains that it has been missing ever since you were here over the half term holidays. _

_ Love, _

_ Bertie _

Giggling at her own intelligence, Daisy turned up her phone (blaring  _ girl in red  _ — a recommendation from Amina, whom she had a proper dinner date with next Exeat weekend) and wrote her reply.

_ Dear Squinty, _

_ I’m not saying that you are sleeping with Harold and I’m not saying that you aren’t, and you know I love you and couldn’t care less either way, but the fact remains that if he was sleeping in his own bed, he would have found the platter under his pillow. _

_ You aren’t subtle at all. _

_ Love, _

_ Daisy _


End file.
